


Are you Chicken?

by Daximed



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Both are ridiculous, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Hanzo crochets, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, McCree knits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:58:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7672759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daximed/pseuds/Daximed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo should have expected it, honestly. He knew Jesse McCree’s mannerisms; knew his asinine humor. He knew this man inside and out (figuratively, literally, some could argue religiously), but that didn’t prepare him for the delicately crocheted monstrosity set on the phone before him.  Laid out on a backdrop of soft, heather grey jersey cotton was a white crocheted piece that strongly resembled a chicken. It was more complicated than that though. If he was correct, the shaping of its long neck and rounded legs would imply… No. He stared at it blankly; blinked once, twice, bringing the phone closer to his eyes. They drifted just above the picture to take in the words at the top of the webpage.</p><p>“Cluck, cluck,” he could have sworn McCree mumbled from under his hand, ears burning red at his contained laughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are you Chicken?

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a crack prompt from the McHanzo Discord and got very out of hand very fast.
> 
> "Hanzo probably crochets, McCree knits but he can only make scarves."  
> Eventually someone started digging up outrageous crochet patterns and we were blessed with "The Willy Warmer" known as Mr. Chicken.  
> "Hanzo makes one for McCree as a joke, but he ends up wearing it. 5 Million chicken puns ensue."
> 
> Enjoy!!

There were a handful of things that came about when you’ve been in a steady relationship with Jesse McCree for over a year. There were, of course, the pet names: _darlin’_ when he’s happy, _sweetheart_ when he’s sad, _Han_ when he’s desperate. You come to learn all of his odd mannerisms; his – frankly, unnerving – eating habits, and his – equally unnerving – cleaning habits. There were times that these quirks could drive a levelheaded man into a blind, maelstrom of fury one day, but on the next find that he can’t quite sleep as soundly on a solo-mission without the heavy pressure of a cowboy’s thick forearm plastered across his torso, garbled snores whistling sharply in his ear. But, there were also the good habits; the purely positive ones that would show themselves between soft kisses and dazzling smiles that could put the sun itself to shame.

 _Like this_ , Hanzo mused, shoulders readjusting to push further against the man to his side. The action earned Hanzo a soft peck to the crown of his head, as was expected.

The pair, he and McCree, were spread on a plush couch in the designated “rec center” of the Gibraltar base. Said room was really just an open area with a smattering of mismatched furniture, but Winston had insisted that the introduction of a small television in the corner earned the space its new title. At McCree’s feet lay an array of brightly colored yarns in various lengths and styles. They would do this every Wednesday, missions permitting, after the two had come to realize that the other shared a similar habit.

“A regular knittin’ circle. Think my Ma’ had one back at my old place when I was just a kid,” McCree had said with a smile after their weekly sessions had become routine. Hanzo didn’t have the heart to explain that he did not knit, he _crocheted_ , choosing to savor the wistful, far off look in the cowboy’s eyes.

That night, a thick quilt was spread before the archer that he had begun two sessions previous. It was woven together in a rich, auburn shade with golden accents; the length falling to cover the entirety of his crossed prosthetic legs. The original quilt had been stained to a degree that no amount of washing would be able to return it to its vibrant glory. Chocolate syrup was no longer permitted in the bedroom, much to McCree’s dismay.

Alternatively, McCree had just tied off the final row of his scarf in a gradient of royal blue hues. His excitement at the possibility of using Alpaca wool for his next project had practically been infectious, so Hanzo bought him a bundle online. He had needed new crochet hooks anyway.

“Sweetpea,” _excited_ , Hanzo mentally ticked off, “look. Ya’ gotta feel this.”

Hanzo paused his own project to turn to the man, only to hold back a snort at the sight. Jesse McCree, sharp shooting outlaw, was delicately caressing the scarf against his bristled cheek, face awash with something edging on ecstacy.

“Here,” the cowboy’s flesh hand offered up a swatch of the scarf, eyes glazed over. Hanzo took the end in hand, stroking the wool between his fingers. A pleasant sigh rumbled up from his chest.

“Nice, ain’t it? Like a baby’s bottom,” McCree’s grinned expectantly.

“I’d imagine it more like an alpaca’s bottom.”

“Oh, shove off.”

“You missed a stitch here.”

“All right, Mister.”

 _Cheeky_ , Hanzo thought through poorly contained giggles as McCree shoved back into the man, a foot planting itself on the couch for more leverage. In between shared laughs and a few jabs to the ribs, the scarf found itself wrapped snug around Hanzo’s neck. He smugly resumed work on his quilt once McCree’s onslaught had subsided. The taller man pushed both of his long legs up and over the side of the couch; head nestled against Hanzo’s thigh.

The shared silence was welcome between the pair; something simple and comfortable they lulled into more and more the longer their relationship drew out. It was only interrupted by the faint _clack clacks_ of Hanzo’s crochet hooks, and the occasional _huh_ from McCree as he scrolls on the small device. Hanzo could just barely register a dampened, rhythmic noise he could only think to describe as _wubbing_ some many rooms over. _Lucio_ , his mind supplied, fingers never faltering on the task at hand.

“When you think you’ll be finishing that quilt up?” McCree hummed suddenly, fingers stilled at his screen.

“Possibly tonight, perhaps next week,” he replied, a sly smirk spreading across his lips “Projects such as this tend to take more time than a scarf.”

“Hey, don’t go knockin’ my scarves now. Got a good plan for your next one s’all,” McCree countered, head fidgeting at the archer’s side; angular nose nudging into his thigh. There was a reddening blush creeping up the strong cords of the cowboy’s neck.

“Very well,” Hanzo mumbled out, completing his current row, “Show me.”

McCree had his lips pinched together in a thin line as the phone was placed screen down in Hanzo’s waiting palm. A furrow of his brows in question was only met by a snort from the cowboy. McCree’s flesh hand slapped over his mouth as his chest shook from the effort to contain more.

Hanzo should have expected it, honestly. He knew Jesse McCree’s mannerisms; knew his asinine humor. He knew this man inside and out (figuratively, literally, some could argue religiously), but that didn’t prepare him for the delicately crocheted _monstrosity_ set on the phone before him.  Laid out on a backdrop of soft, heather grey jersey cotton was a white crocheted piece that strongly resembled a chicken. It was more complicated than that though. If he was correct, the shaping of its long neck and rounded legs would imply… No. He stared at it blankly; blinked once, twice, bringing the phone closer to his eyes. They drifted just above the picture to take in the words at the top of the webpage.

“Cluck, cluck,” he could have sworn McCree mumbled from under his hand, ears burning red at his contained laughter.

“A… Willy Warmer-?“ He could barely finish reading the soft pastel label on the webpage aloud before the man below him erupted into a series of sharp cackles and wheezing whimpers.

“It’s a damn dick sock, I’m-“ but the cowboy couldn’t continue before a fresh wave of snorts took him over, metal arm thwacking the back of the couch. Hanzo’s shocked silence slowly slipped into giggles as he mirrored the other man’s contagious laughter; difficult to resist the obnoxious reaction . They continued until both had tears shining in their eyes, and the phone was returned to McCree’s shaking hand.

“I’m just messin’ with you, sugar. That is some damn funny shit, though,” McCree sat up right, wiping his eyes on a long whistle. _Sugar,_ Hanzo’s eyes flicked sharply to the other man. It was meant as a challenge _._ “What did that say it was called? The “Mr. Chicken” style? Aww, hell.”

Hanzo rumbled one last chuckle, deft hands finding his place on the quilt once more. “But of course,” At the rate he was moving, the quilt would surely be completed by that night, and it was not as if he had anything planned to work on next. _You’re on, cowboy._

 

\---

 

Hanzo hadn’t crocheted outside of his and McCree’s Wednesday nights in the rec room for some time, but for this to work he’d have to have it finished before their next meeting. The design itself seemed simple enough, so he downloaded a handful of the basic patterns onto the desktop monitor in his room of standard design patterns. He would move onto the fabled “Mr. Chicken” pattern once he had a grasp for the others. As he thumbed through the files, Hanzo prayed to any deity that would listen that Athena didn’t keep log of the web searches Overwatch agents made.

He walked into the kitchen that night after completing his first trail run to McCree whistling a tune under his breath at the stove. Hanzo forwent his original destination at the tea kettle to shimmy up behind the taller man’s form. He looped his arms around and into the warm pockets of the old hoodie McCree was wearing in place of his standard serape, head burrowing into the fabric at his back; it smelled like sweat, ash, and a hint of cayenne pepper. The man above him didn’t even startle are the other’s movements, instead rumbling up a low chuckle from his chest. His whistles shifted to low hums, knowing that the sharp noises occasionally distressed the smaller man. They stood like that for some time, McCree cooking and Hanzo savouring the silence of the pair just _being_.

“Hey baby, you hungry? Got enough here for two,” McCree’s head lolled to the side in way of speaking to the other man, stirring around a heap of sizzling chopped peppers and onions in a pan. _Baby_ was used to reassure and encourage.

Hanzo nuzzled further into the man’s back in response, muttering a quick, “Yes, please.”

He retreated from McCree’s back and went about searching the cabinets for plates and eating utensils. He set down two mismatched bowls and a pair of forks at the kitchen’s small island countertop when his hunt bore little fruit. McCree removed the pan from heat, flicked the stove off, and placed a serving of the dish in each of the bowls while Hanzo pitter-pattered about, filling water glasses and retrieving napkins. He returned, placing the glasses down, and was about to take his seat at the high stool when he was met with a grin that could only be described by McCree as “shit eating” by the very man himself. He schooled his features immediately, arms crossing over his chest.

“Jesse McCree, if you did something to my food I will-“

“Guess what we’re having for dinner,” was McCree’s quick interruption. He was biting his lip harshly, holding back laughter.

Hanzo jutted his chin up, looked to the contents of the bowl, and spoke evenly,” I do not know-“before McCree snorted loudly, metal hand gripping the countertop for support.

“It’s Mr. Chicken,” he managed out on a guffaw, shoulders shaking slightly from the strain.

“Mr. Chick-?” Hanzo started, staring back into the bowl wearily before the joke hit him. _The crochet pattern._ Finally taking his seat, Hanzo lifted a portion of shredded chicken from the bowl on his fork, laughter beginning to travel up from his chest warmly. “Good evening, Chicken-san,” he started, twirling the fork slightly much to Jesse’s amusement, “How kind of you to join us for dinner.”

McCree had his head down on the countertop next to his bowl, back heaving,” All the way from Willy Warmers. Must ‘ave been so _hard_ finding the time to come out here.” He turned and met Hanzo’s eyes, brows waggling; egging him on.

“Surely the trip must have been _long_.”

“Did he pack a bag? Was it light or _heavy_?”

“Our guest must be exhausted from the _strenuous activity_.”

McCree’s giggles tapered off as he straightened himself, and began to plow into his meal with gusto. Hanzo observed the chicken at the end of his fork, stabbed into a pepper with a _crunch_ , and took a cautionary bite. The chicken was heavily seasoned, as were the majority of McCree’s dishes. He fumbled for the water glass after swallowing.

“Bit of a bite there, ain’t it? Call it my Kickin’ Chicken,” McCree mused around his own mouthful, water glass untouched.

Setting the glass down delicately, Hanzo leveled the other man with a heated stare; darting his tongue out to wet his lip and draw in the cowboy’s attention. In a low, rough voice he knew made McCree’s skin prickle pleasantly, he rasped, “I didn’t know Chicken-san would be so _hot_.”

McCree’s hands were on him before he could hold back his giggles, laughter bubbling to life between sharp gasps in a deserted kitchen.

 

\---

 

McCree looked baffled, brows pinched together in concentration, when Hanzo placed the wrapped parcel in his lap the following Wednesday. He’d seemed puzzled at first when he’d found Hanzo in the rec room sat at their designated couch, no yarn in sight, but now he was nearing on a loss for words.

“I should give you gifts more often. I’ve never seen you stay so quiet for so long,” he hummed running a hand through the long hair at his nape where we wore it down that night.

McCree opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then closed it again; eyes remained on the present. The image of a gaping fish came to mind.

“S’it my birthday?”

“No.”

“Anniversary?”

“No.”

“Thank the lord for that. Thought I’d be in a real ass kickin’ for a second there.”

“Jesse, open the damn gift.”

“All right, all right. Whatever you say, sweetie pie,” McCree conceded, hands raised in a placating gesture. _Sweetie pie_ was reserved for moments of doubt or confusion. Hanzo preened.

He tore haphazardly at the colorful paper, popping the bow off to place on the other man’s arm. Hanzo couldn’t quite make out McCree’s hands once he lifted the lid of the box and began sifting through the neatly organized tissue paper, but he could see when his arms stilled. Hanzo hiccupped out a soft giggle, realization dawning on the other man’s face as their eyes met.

“You did not.”

“Chicken-san thought one dinner wasn’t enough time to get to know you properly.”

“You did not, darlin’,” McCree’s beamed, the box pushed away so he could be seen cradling the neatly crocheted Willy Warmer. _Darlin’_ was used in times of joy and adoration _._ Hanzo’s smile bloomed tenfold, “You did not make me a fuckin’ dick sock.”

Hanzo couldn’t reply, erupting into a fit of giggles as the other man held the garment up higher as if he was aiming to present it to the heavens. His head snapped to the empty, open room suddenly, one hand returning to cup the side of his mouth.

“Hanzo Shimada is the best damn boyfriend on this here green earth, ya’ hear me?” he bellowed, voice echoing off the walls of the base. Hanzo elbowed him sharply on his flank, swearing he could make out a grumbled _“Eww, gross”_ from the hallway that led to Hana’s room around his own laughter.

 

\---

 

There was nothing quite like near-death experiences to ground someone, and with his lifestyle Hanzo had seen his fair share. The mission had been running quite smoothly until everything “went to hell in a handbasket” as McCree had so eloquently stated over the com line. They had reacted quickly enough to pull out, but the mission was a failure; a series of top secret government files lost in a Talon raid.

The team was all properly accounted for on the helicarrier, McCree hobbling on with an unconscious Tracer slung over his shoulder to lead up the tail end, and then they were lifting into the air. Hanzo’s stomach lurched painfully at their ascent while he favored his left arm through a scowl. A stealthy talon agent had managed to sneak up behind him as he heard the first distress call, Hanzo dodging the blow to his jugular but not moving quick enough to evade the agent entirely.

 _Sloppy_ , he remarked, staring into his lap where his gloved hand clenched harshly in the bunched fabric. His knuckles began to turn white from the pressure, but then another hand was closing around his balled fist; darker, a smattering of hair decorating the back. It plucked at his fingers gently, weaving to slot the two together. He chanced a glance up to the man at his right, brows raising.

McCree’s head was pushed against the back of his seat, jaw clenched and eyes closed. Hanzo watched the sharp inhale, exhale of the man’s chest, once, twice; eyes trailed up and caught on the bobbing adam’s apple. He was not the only one to stare death in the face; to know what it was like to do it daily.

 

\---

 

Near-death experiences were also known to bring about a neediness in Hanzo that would rival any deviant. The pair fumbled into McCree’s room blindly, mouths rough against each other and teeth clacking. Hanzo’s hands fumbled blindly against the straps of McCree’s chest piece as the man in question kicked off his obnoxious boots. They pulled away briefly to rip open their own individual tops, clothing tossed this way and that around the already cluttered room. McCree leaned in for a quick kiss, Hanzo biting his bottom lip in retaliation, and then he was hopping away to wrestle with his leather chaps. He fumbled into the small bathroom momentarily, drawers slamming open and closed while searching in his haste.

Hanzo stripped down entirely in the meantime, hopping on the unmade bed with a muted _tack_ from his prosthetic feet. He deftly let down his hair from its high knot with the flick of a wrist, and then he waited. And waited. The noise in the bathroom had abruptly stopped.

“McCree, hurry up,” he rumbled, blunt nails dragging sharply against the meat of his thigh, “I need you.”

A cough from the bathroom.

His hands stilled, listening, “Jesse…?”

McCree emerged from the bathroom, stark naked besides the ridiculous cowboy hat clenched between his hands and covering his crotch. There was a smug grin cast on his face, broad shoulders twitching as the archer’s brows rose.

“Someone wanted to see you,” was his only explanation, “but you gotta answer me somethin’ first.” Hanzo’s head tilted to the side in reply, brows coming down to pinch together.

In flash, the hat was whipped away, and McCree’s hands were sat firmly on his hips. Staring up at Hanzo in all of his white crocheted glory, was the fucking Willy Warmer. Mr. Chicken. _Chicken-san_.

“Hanzo Shimada, are you chicken?”

The barren walls of McCree’s room were filled with sharp pearls of laughter from both men in seconds. Hanzo flopped back on the mattress with the force of it, hair splaying out behind him as his chest heaved desperately. McCree managed to make his way across the room, legs bracketing around the smaller man in seconds, clothed dick bobbing obscenely between the pair.

“Aww come on Han, think outside the baw-baw-bawks,” McCree leaned over to cluck into the other man’s ear, nibbling softly at the lobe. _Han,_ horny as hell.

Hanzo could barely catch his breath, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, “You are a ridiculous, absurd man, Jesse McCree.”

Jesse could only nuzzle into the greying, feather-soft hairs at Hanzo’s temples, humming softly. “Hey, no harm no foul.”

There were a handful of things that came about when you’ve been in a steady relationship with Jesse McCree for over a year. One of the most notable, perhaps, were the inside jokes that Hanzo would rather feign death than explain their origin to another living soul.

**Author's Note:**

> The placeholder title for this fic was "Chicken Dickin" ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> And, of course, the fabled ["Mr. Chicken"](https://discordcdn.com/attachments/189614005235613696/210226598983630849/OfsM6B5.png) Willy Warmer.
> 
> Look at the incredible[ companion art piece](http://shockbabe.tumblr.com/post/148430348872) the wonderful Katya drew of Mr. Chicken!! _What has this fic done to us_
> 
>  
> 
> 10,000 thank you's go to[ Kumo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/electroncloudy) for agreeing to beta this ridiculous prompt.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://daximed.tumblr.com/)!!


End file.
